Breaking Point
by SamieJamesBait
Summary: "You want me." - "It's not worth it." -  "I want you." - "It's not enough," Esme/James. With a big dollop of sexy Curves thrown in for good measure.


**ENTRY FOR THE CURVACEOUS AND BODACIOUS BOMBSHELL FIC CONTEST**  
><strong>Story Name: Breaking Point<strong>  
><strong>Penname: SamieJamesBait<strong>  
><strong>Rating: M<strong>  
><strong>Genre: AngstGeneral**  
><strong>Pairing: EsmeJames**  
><strong>Total Word Count: 2745<strong>  
><strong>Summary:<strong> "You want me." - "It's not worth it." - "I want you." - "It's not enough," Esme/James. With a big dollop of sexy Curves thrown in for good measure.

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><p>"<em>I like you. You're funny, and you're nicely shaped. And frankly, it's ludicrous to have these interlocking bodies and not… interlock. Please remove your clothing now" <em>

-Anya, season 4, Buffy the Vampire Slayer

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><p>"You want me."<p>

"It's not worth it."

"I want you."

"It's not enough," I tell him, his tear-filled eyes reflecting my own.

He strikes out at the wall beside my head, repeatedly. Closing my eyes, I wait for him to calm, taking a moment to calm myself also.

"You shouldn't get to decide this. I should have a say in this too." His forehead is against mine, his hands still caging me in this dark hallway with him. "I love you. Every inch. You're perfect just as you are." He kisses my nose, then my eyelids.

I open my eyes, stronger and determined to convince him - this time. "I know you love me, but _they_ won't. _They_ won't understand. You have worked so hard your whole life for this; I'm not going to let you throw it all away over _me_."

"Baby...please...I lov-"

"Stop! It has to be this way, James. Please... just don't make this any harder than it already is."

I duck under his arm and walk away, but not before he shouts one more thing at me.

"I don't want any of this without you, Esme. Without you all this of this is bullshit."

I leave him with the bitter reality of our situation choking him, as it's choking me.

* * *

><p>Two weeks, and countless comfort takeaways later...<p>

James is refusing to perform. The band is confused and the venues are pissed. How can I tell them that I know what his problem is? How can I tell them it's because of me? I can't.

It would ruin his reputation.

James is the lead singer in the biggest rock-band around. He has a shit ton of girls throwing themselves at him every place he performs. He is adored and desired across the country. Hell, across the globe. How can he expect me to condone the mess we have made for ourselves? If everyone found out that he was in love with a plus-sized woman he would be a laughing stock. He wouldn't be taken seriously. The press would call him a chubby chaser.

I'm more than comfortable with my size sixteen figure. I love my curves, and I know he loves them too. He loves me. Just the way I am.

That isn't the problem.

The problem is everybody else, and I'm not naïve enough to think that it wouldn't affect his career, it would. As his manager, and the woman who loves him, I can't take away his dream. I refuse to let him ruin his image over me, because that is exactly what would happen.

When a female runner, backstage at on of the bands gigs, caught us making out she burst into laughter. As if the idea of James being attracted to a full-figured woman is hilarious. I was so angry and humiliated I missed two days of work, and I never miss work.

Not long after that, I overheard the bands drummer speaking with the lead bassist. They were discussing me and James, saying how he was a fool for hooking up with me when he can chose between a million different girls. Hot girls. Why was he wasting time on a sympathy fuck to their manager?

I'd missed work for two weeks after that.

James didn't understand how much of an impact our being together would cause. Amongst his closest friends he was already a joke for 'hooking up' with me. If they knew the truth, that he loved me, he would become an outcast.

How many other stars in Hollywood proudly step out with a plus-sized woman and declare their love for her? Not many. However, I know for a fact there are more than a few who have secret lovers. Curvy, beautiful, intelligent lovers – who just so happen to be labelled as 'big-boned women.'

It isn't enough for me, to be the woman hidden away. A dirty little secret. I am perfectly happy with my figure. I love my life. But I'm not naïve, either. I couldn't handle the headlines, the media paying me and James extra attention like we are some novelty act. The sexy Rock God isn't supposed to fall for the curvy girl. Not the genuinely curvy girl, anyway.

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><p>I don't go and search for him, there is no need. James finds his way to me. He always finds his way back to me. Back to us. He is as enslaved to this as I am. It isn't our choice anymore – it's instinct. We <em>chose<em> to flirt. We _decided_ we liked each other. We _allowed_ ourselves to become intimate. But we _fell_ in love. It isn't a conscious choice... it just happened. I love him and he loves me, and it really should be as simple as that. Only, he's in the public eye... and there are things the public just don't accept. For example: plus sized women, like myself. Sure they tell us we are beautiful and people protest for larger ladies on the catwalks, but the truth is still as obvious as it is unlikely to change: people like perfection.

"You're a mess," I tell him, as he stands on my doorstep, bottle of whisky in hand.

He's drunk, he stinks of beer. He's unshaven and his blond hair is all over the place.

"Why won't you let me love you?" His voice is husky, a combination of too much alcohol and little sleep.

I stand aside so he can enter, not answering him. There's nothing to say.

He enters, keeping his eyes locked with mine, dropping the bottle of whisky on my doorstep. I look at the broken shards of glass in annoyance – I'll clean it in the morning.

"Answer me, Esme."

He's closer than I would like. Closer than I can handle. I can't even stand aside to close the door as he has me pined to the wall. He's not touching me...yet.

"You know why. And sit down before you fall down, James. The last thing we need is you hurting yourself."

"Please, just talk to me. Stop shutting me out, pushing me away. I need you, baby." The whites of his eyes are red. He's at breaking point.

We both are. We need to stop doing this to ourselves, to each other - it's not healthy.

"If you sit down we can talk. I promise, okay?"

He drops his eyes from mine, and heads straight for the living room.

I drag a last breath of fresh air through my lungs, bracing myself for what is about to happen.

It was inevitable. It had to happen at some point. He had to realise that this was never going to work. He had to.

* * *

><p>I'm sitting on the floor, cross legged in-front of the fire. He is on the couch facing me. My dressing gown is short but I'm wearing red satin hot pants, he can't see anything. Not like he won't be tempted though... he is partial to a flash of flesh... especially my thighs. He once told me they were firm and well-rounded – this was after I had sat on his face to receive one of the most toe-curling orgasms of my life.<p>

But that cannot happen anymore. This has to end. I'm at my breaking point.

"How much have you drank?"

"A bottle...a few bottles... a bar load of bottles...who's counting?" he laughs, bitterly. "I've drank myself sober now anyway."

I shake my head at him, in pity as his lover and in anger as his manager.

"You'll kill yourself doing that."

"You're killing me anyway... might as well go down oblivious." He rubs his hand along his stubble covered cheek. It makes a noise, joining the only other sounds in the room: the crackle of the fire and my heartbeat.

"I didn't want this." I pull my knees up to my chest, crossing my feet.

"You're the one stopping this. You're the one causing this, Esme and you damn well know it."

He leans forward in the seat, resting his arms on his legs and crossing his hands that fall over the front of his lap.

I bite back my instant retort, knowing it will do more harm than good to tell him the truth of our situation again. This isn't an 'it's not you, it's me' situation. This isn't about that. It's a 'we can't because they won't allow it' situation. The media would rip James apart if they knew. His fans would laugh at him. His credibility would be shot.

Just because I am happy and comfortable with whom I am, it doesn't mean others are.

Lost in my thought, I don't notice him leave the couch to kneel in front of me until his hands cup my cheeks.

"Stop. Don't do that to yourself. Stop talking yourself out of this because of people we don't even know."

"James...I'm doing this for you...I'm thinking about what is best fo-"

"For me? Bullshit! You aren't doing this for me. You aren't even doing this for your damn self. Or for anyone else. You're doing it for no-one! Can't you see? Nobody gives a fuck that you are a curvy woman. Hell, most men are going to hate me when they know I'm lucky enough to call you my woman. You're fucking beautiful, Esme and everyone knows it."

I smile as the tears stream my face, he smiles back.

"You need to sleep," I tell him, pulling my face from between his hands.

"You need to shut up and kiss me."

I look at the threads of my carpet, running my fingers through the thick wool. "Nothing's changed."

He's angry. He's tired. He's at breaking point.

"I guess I'll go home then. You can sleep on it. I hope you have some more sense in you by morning." He stands and I follow him.

"I'll call you in the morning," - I reach for the door handle - "please don't miss work again."

He doesn't answer me. Instead, his arm comes over my shoulder, pushing the front door closed and as he pushes me against the wood.

"James...don't-"

"Don't what? Don't show you how much I love you? Don't prove to you that you are beautiful? Don't fight for you? For us?" His lips brush against my neck and my eyes close in content. I lose the will to fight him as soon as he touches me, and this is where our problems begin all over again.

"You see this?" His hand palms around my outer-thigh. Skin on skin. "This is nothing but pure sex to me. Your soft, smooth, thick thighs are one of the sexiest things about you. The way they feel against my fingers..." he traces his fingers in small lines up and down my thigh. "...my lips, wrapped around my body. Nothing but Pure. Fucking. Sex."

His tongue swirls on my neck, he nibbles the tender skin below my ear.

"And your hips," he trails his hand further up my body, walking his fingers from my flesh to the satin of my dressing gown, "your hips are just the right amount of curvy. Soft, enticing, and perfect to grip onto when you are riding my cock."

He bites the lobe of my ear, breathing heavily.

"And these..." he moans, palming the side of my breast. "These are my favourite damn thing on the planet."

I turn my face towards him, and his lips cover mine. He tastes of whisky, and smells of his long pity party, but I don't care. I love him. He loves me. The rest of the damn world can wait until the morning.

I turn to face him at the same time that he spins me by the waist. Our minds in sync, our bodies reacting on instinct.

Lips pressed together...pushing and claiming. _You're mine - _he's telling me. - _Only mine._

His hand cups my jaw, fingers pressing into my cheeks as he tilts my head back and carries his kiss to my throat. Warm...wet...territorial.

His other hand grips my wrist, shoving my right arm above my head, against the door.

"Fuck..." His words vibrate against my throat. Panting, wanting, he pushes himself against me. He's hard and inviting - I push back.

I need to touch him. Using my free hand I pull his t-shirt up at the back, drag my nails across his soft skin. His skin is soft and familiar – I know where every small mole is on his body. I've kissed them all.

James nips at the skin on my throat – knowing it drives me crazy. He knows just how to turn me on. He knows my body better than anyone.

When he is this close, touching me like this, I can't think of anything but him. He knows exactly how I like it, and he gives it to me. In abundance.

I rub myself against him faster, hitching a leg up to his waist to gain closer friction.

I'm closer - but it's not enough.

"James," - I pant - "we should take this into the bedroom. You should be naked."

He laughs into the crook of my neck then licks the skin. "Absa_fucking_lutley." His voice is raspy from his recent excessive drinking, and it sounds sexy as hell.

He leads me to the bedroom by my wrist, his strides fast and purposeful. He knows the way and he is eager. So am I.

He strips himself, and I do the same. Neither of us want to wait. It's been far too long since we have been together...Since he's been inside of me.

Finally naked, the darkness of the room hides the full view of James from me. I reach out to touch him, tracing my fingers along the lines of his abs, needing to feel them.

"You're beautiful," I tell him, and he is.

My comment has no time to linger on my lips as James closes the space between us and pins me against the door. Kissing me... touching me...I moan with pleasure.

His hand slips between our stomachs, making my muscles clench in anticipation. Slipping his fingers under my panties, I'm lost. Owned. It feels so good; Too good.

_Too fast. _

His fingers are exploring, teasing, rubbing my most sensitive part, and I'm going to climax far too soon.

I want to enjoy him inside of me.

"Fuck me, James. I need you inside of me."

I only need to tell him once. Lifting me up the door with ease, I wrap my legs around his waist, and with one gentle thrust he's inside me.

Finally, everything is okay again. This is where everything makes sense. When me and James are connected like this, the way bodies are supposed to be connected. Interlocked. Together.

Everything is simple. Perfect.

He gains pace, and I feel myself clenching. His lips sloppily kiss my neck, as he races towards his climax.

"Esme..." he pants, "Promise me...promise me we can do this." He's breathless, and on the brink of pleasure. Why he chooses now to bring this up is beyond me, but James never does the expected.

That's why he has whirlwind tattoo's down his side. A nickname I had given him ten years ago when we had first met.

"Please?" It's such a desperate plea. Sincere. Vulnerable.

"Okay," I tell him, and we climax together; pleasure assaulting our bodies and tears staining our cheeks.

Afterwards, we lay wrapped in each others arms. Silence around us, it's perfect. I still have my doubts, but I'll try. After all, James loves me just as I am. Curves and all.

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><p>I needed some EsmeJames in my life. :D


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